


So's The Bronx!

by Vive_la_republique



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 06:25:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6504400
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vive_la_republique/pseuds/Vive_la_republique





	So's The Bronx!

Jack Kelly can hear the Bronx delegates coming long before he sees them. 

The two Bronx newsboys had told Jack to meet them in the center of an abandoned junkyard. From his position on top of a crate in the middle of said junkyard, he can hear them moving towards him, scrap metal clanking, crushed under careless feet, loud voices bouncing off the iron beams. For two people, they make way too much noise for his taste. 

He groans and turns to his three companions. "Are the Bronx boys really this loud? All the time?" Nobody looks particularly sympathetic or ready to answer his question. Spot is smirking at him, laughing at his weakness. Davey looks slightly bemused, as if he was too distracted by his thoughts to hear Jack's comment and is just now tuning into the world. Knowing Davey, that's probably exactly what happened. Katherine is engrossed by whatever she's writing down in her little notebook and barely takes enough time to roll her eyes fondly at him before returning to her work. 

So Jack groans and bangs his head against the metal crate. Still no sympathy, although he can see a hint of a smile forming on Katherine's lips. Spot just looks exasperated. "I warned ya the Bronx boys was loud," he says bluntly. "You didn' have to deal with 'em for a year like I did. Don't complain." He grimaces, but says nothing more. Jack wonders how bad they are when they're directly communicating with people. If they can get under Spot Conlon's skin, they're no doubt shockingly annoying. 

His idle thoughts are answered when two boys step into the center of the junkyard. Jack can't help but snigger a little at their outfits, and he's somewhat surprised Spot isn't snickering too. The boys wear pressed white shirts and crisp black trousers with odd cockade-like things pinned to their breasts and ties loosely hanging around their necks in red and green. Katherine pokes him hard between his ribs. "Very polite, Mr. Kelly," she mutters. He shuts up immediately. Katherine's wrath is far too formidable to deal with at the moment. 

They all stand there awkwardly for a second, the Bronx newsboys, who are such polar opposites in looks and make such a nice contrast that Jack almost wonders if they've sprung right off the page of one of his sketchbooks, seeming to have a telepathic conversation nobody else is privy to. After a very long silence, Davey steps forward. Silently, Jack thanks whatever entity is up there for Davey and his awkward but somewhat there manners. 

He opens his mouth to speak, but one of the Bronx boys cuts him off. "Well, well, well," he drawls. "If it ain't Mister Jack Kelly himself, king of Manhattan." Sharp green eyes take in everything with startling precision as the odd boy very slowly scrutinizes each person. Jack scrutinizes him in turn, and notices the little things in the way only an artist can, the crookedness of the boy's nose, suggesting it's been broken quite a few times, for example, or the long charcoal-smudged fingers of a fellow artist. The way the Bronx boy winks at Davey, who promptly turns tomato-red, and the way his eyes roam appreciatively over Katherine makes Jack seethe inwardly, however. This fellow artist is far too rakish for his taste. 

Katherine herself is clearly about to offer some retort, but before she can do so, the other boy speaks, pushing his golden curls off his forehead into his cap. "R," he says, the one syllable seemingly laden with hundreds of different emotions. He rolls his eyes. "We have important business to discuss, and I'm afraid Grantaire here is holding us up. I apologize." He sends a meaningful glance to the boy who must be Grantaire, who merely grins in response. 

Jack can't help but notice the formal way the blond newsboy talks, and it makes him feel self-conscious in an odd way. He's not quite sure why, although it might have to do with Katherine's appreciative nodding. Jack has to snap out of it quickly, however, because the blond newsboy has extended his hand to shake. His grip is firm, and the shake is brisk but comforting. They both know that they stand on solid ground with each other, at least for now.   
"I am Julian Enjolras, known as Apollo among the newsboys of the Bronx. I have been sent as a representative-" 

The other boy throws an arm around his shoulders. "Don't forget about me, Apollo," he says, laughing. "But first, let me just say our dear leader is too modest. He's the king-" Enjolras gives Grantaire what can only be described as a withering glare, and Grantaire rolls his eyes so far back in his head that Jack can just see the whites. Enjolras elbows him in the side, and he whines. "All right, all right! Apollo is our democratically elected leader, please excuse me for using any word related to a monarchy in any way." He smiles crookedly and runs a hand through his wild inky curls. "I'm Robert Grantaire. Everyone just calls me R. And somehow, this guy has chosen me to be his boyfriend." 

Jack is rather confused for a second, not sure if this R is making a joke, but he sees the pair's fingers intertwine, marble skin against olive, and he sees the genuine smile that lights up R's face, and decides not to pry. If they've managed to find love in this disaster of a city, who is Jack to judge? 

Still holding R's hand, Enjolras (Jack thinks his last name is better than his first) coughs loudly. "We did not come simply to exchange pleasantries. In fact, we have a proposition to make." 

Jack gestures grandly. "Shoot away."

"We've heard about the newsboy strike, and the Bronx wishes to extend their assistance. Not only that, we would like to make it a strike of all working children. Child labor is a terrible thing. I've seen girls as young as seven sit in suffocatingly hot clothing factories, inhaling dust that will eventually kill them and listening to noises that will deafen them before they're thirty. I've heard stories of toddler miners who sort through minerals for tedious hours, choking on coal dust instead of getting the education they need to succeed in life. Without better working conditions, none of the children can ever be truly free. It is our responsibility to free our brethren from tyranny, to stand up and take our chance against not only Pulitzer and his cronies, but against the government. We will fight, and we will gain liberty for all those crushed under the iron boot of civilization." 

The silence is deafening. Jack feels tremendously self-conscious next to the Bronx leader, so he lets out a low whistle. "Wow. Okay."

Enjolras laughs. "I'll put it in simpler terms. We want to fight not only for our rights, but the rights of all the working kids in the city."

Davey looks ridiculously excited about the entire conversation. "I think that's a brilliant idea!" He says, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet. "We can change the world with one strike! Bring rights to everyone!" He turns to the others. "What do you say?" 

Spot chomps loudly on his chewing tobacco. "I'm not gonna say no. 'S up to the lady and you, Kelly." 

Wordlessly, Jack turns to Katherine. She grins. "I think it sounds like a wonderful way to expand your vision. If we gather the whole city's kids, nobody can stop us from bringing the brand-new century in, no matter how much the adults kick and scream." 

Jack nods briefly. "Then it's settled. We'll join you." He spits into his hand and sticks it out for Enjolras to shake. "To the Bronx." 

Enjolras spits into his hand and shakes Jack's right back, a challenging smile on his face. "To Manhattan. And," he tips his cap towards Spot, "to Brooklyn." He turns and tips his cap to Davey. "To the union," he says. Then he tips his hat to Katherine and Jack together. "To the revolution, my friends. United we stand, and we'll pull Pulitzer's cronies down from their pedestals and make a change in our world." Then he pivots sharply and jumps down, gesturing for R to lead the way. "So let's begin!" 

The others start to walk off, following R. But Enjolras hangs behind. "You're the leader of all Manhattan, yeah?" He says to Jack. Jack nods sharply. "I have something for you, then. And something for you to give to your girl, and to Conlon, and the other guy. Here." He thrusts four cockades into Jack's hands. "Liberté, égalité, fraternité. I like you, Manhattan. You're going to do great things. Vive la Revolution, oui?" He thrusts his fist in the air and yells it again, "Vive la Revolution!" The others respond from up ahead with equal enthusiasm. 

Jack just grins. Maybe he does have more in common with the Bronx newsies than he thought.


End file.
